To Live and Learn
by stcrmpilot
Summary: Sometimes, no matter how much he would've liked to pretend otherwise, even the Doctor needs a bit of a reminder.


A/N: Major content warning for this one; it's from the Doctor's POV and follows all of his thoughts as he attempts to deal with them. The point, ultimately, is that he does manage to do so, but I've no doubt that some will find it very triggering. Just use your discretion.

* * *

The TARDIS was humming insistently in the Doctor's mind as he wandered into the console room.

"What're you on about?" he muttered, kneeling on the grated floor. Pretending valiantly that his hands weren't shaking, he opened his toolbox and lifted out a piece of the coral shielding the console, exposing a tangle of wires and tubing.

Her whine hit an urgent, keening pitch. It was as if she were begging, pleading with him to do as she asked, and if that didn't damn near break his hearts…

"I don't need to," he told her. "I'm fine. Please–" His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. "Please, just go. I'll be alright. I want to be alone."

She gave something akin to a whimper. He felt her slip reluctantly from the back of his mind and retreat from the console room, giving him his privacy.

Free of her scrutiny, he took a shuddering breath. He'd hoped to come here for a distraction, to pour all his pent-up energy and emotion into mindless repairs. He loved his TARDIS, but he really didn't need her pestering him about the exact thing he was trying to avoid. It was times like these he almost resented having a sentient ship, because he hated for her to worry about him. He hated for her to see him in this state.

Donna was long-since asleep, the TARDIS late in her night cycle, but he couldn't settle down. He was restless, full of anxious energy; his hearts beat a little too fast, his breathing was a little too shallow, his insides were in knots with a horrible, overwhelming feeling of guilt. He didn't know what had happened. He'd been fine all day, all week, all month, even. Then they'd gotten locked in yet another jail, in a cell that just happened to have a few notches carved into the wall—just someone counting down the days, no doubt, but in the absence of anything more captivating to do than think it hadn't taken long for those thoughts to start… running away from him, one could say.

He remembered feeling that sickening swoop in his stomach as he realized what the carvings reminded him of. He couldn't keep his eyes off them for the remainder of their imprisonment, no matter how much he might have wanted never to see them again; it had been hours before they were let go, and Donna had gone to her room for the night as soon as they'd gotten back to the TARDIS. He'd almost wanted to stop her, tell her what was wrong and ask her to stay with him, but it had been a very long day and she was exhausted. In the end, he'd lost his nerve and set about distracting himself. He really would prefer not to give in now.

Groaning, he buried his head in his hands. What was wrong with him? He hadn't… done that in a rather long time. It had been a while since he'd seriously wanted to. And now he'd been set back to square one by, what, some markings in a wall? It was pathetic.

He didn't understand why he'd been so affected—he did, however, despise himself for it—but he had bigger problems at the moment than reflecting on his mental processes. Consciously refocusing on the web of wires in front of him, he groped blindly for a pair of pliers in the toolbox by his side—and was, not for the first time, given a harsh reminder of why he shouldn't let his attention wander while working. He yelped and pulled his hand back; he'd nicked the back of his finger on a small box cutter, the cap for which had popped off and was lying at the bottom of the toolbox. As he examined the injury, a thin trail of blood welled up where the knife had caught him.

"No, no, no," he groaned aloud, fighting back a mounting sense of panic. The faint nervous tremble in his hands climbed quickly until his entire body was shaking. He felt weak and dizzy and sick. _Stupid, careless Doctor,_ he admonished himself. But he didn't have much attention to spare for it, and he let himself off easy.

He tried to calm himself, slowing his breaths and his heartbeats, but every fresh sting from the cut, every glimpse of the little beads of blood now forming on his skin, set him right back. He wrapped his other hand around his finger so he didn't have to see it; it only made the wound sting more. His lower lip trembled, and he leaned his forehead against the edge of the console, squeezing his eyes shut.

Tears stung at his eyes, hot and angry. This was ridiculous! Accidentally nicking his finger didn't mean he had to do anything more, but… oh, he really did want to. He hated to admit it, but he did. Part of him was pleading with himself to grab the box cutter and get it over with, so he could stop feeling like this. Exhaustion dragged at his limbs, clouded his thoughts, and his hearts felt so heavy that his whole body ached simply from sitting up. He wanted to curl up on the floor and let the fatigue overtake him; at least, once lying down, he might not have the energy to sit up again.

 _I can't take this,_ he thought, taking a shuddering breath as stray tears began to drip down his cheeks. The realization sent a fresh stab of pain deep into his chest, sent his panicked thoughts racing once more. He needed to do something, anything, really, but he couldn't bring himself to lift a hand. He needed to stop thinking, stop feeling; he was sure another second of it would send him mad. Sleep wouldn't come to him in this state, and he couldn't stand the thought of having a nightmare, anyways. Maybe he wanted to die, maybe that was it. Wouldn't be the first time.

Well, there was a box cutter next to him…

The Doctor stood abruptly and stormed out of the console room, too furious with himself to care where he was going. Oh, gods, he'd really cocked this up; he knew better than to indulge in thoughts like that. He knew that he was going to go back to the console room and use that knife if left to his own devices, and it bloody terrified him.

In a last, desperate act, he changed his course and went to Donna's room.

For a long time he stood outside, leaning against the wall beside the door and trying to muster up his courage. Finally, when the urge to go back got too strong, he gave two quiet knocks and waited, leaning his forehead against the wall.

"Donna," he called softly, his voice wavering. "Please come out. Please."

Maybe it was the tone of his voice that did it, or maybe it was that she'd gotten used to being woken at nonstandard times, but she opened the door just a few seconds later, frowning when she saw him.

"Doctor? Is something wrong?"

"No, no, nothing wrong. Everything's fine, really, no big deal," he said hastily, then felt a twinge of guilt. Even that extra little bit of pain made him want to collapse where he stood, close his eyes and never wake up. He swallowed hard. "Well, maybe not… not so fine. You could say."

Visible surprise flickered across Donna's face. Then her brow creased in worry. "Why, what's the matter?"

The Doctor stared at her for a moment, willing himself to speak; he realized that he couldn't say it. He just couldn't. He remembered the day he'd first told her and he knew he would never forget the look on her face—although he had to admit it had been rather overshadowed by the wonderful, brilliant, totally undeserved things she'd told him afterwards. How could he look her in the eyes and hurt her like that?

He realized he'd been silent for too long, and he shook his head, backing away from the doorway. "Oh, never mind. Doesn't matter, I'll just–"

She caught his hand just as he started to turn and hurry off. "You can't really think I'd believe that, Doctor," she said patiently. "Did you have a nightmare?"

The Doctor glanced at her for a split second before turning away, taking a deep, shuddering breath. He shook his head.

"I c–" His voice broke, and he rubbed a hand over his mouth to disguise the tremble in his bottom lip. "I cut my finger," he mumbled shakily, muffled by his hand.

"What? Are you alright, do you need the medbay?" She lifted the hand she'd been holding, examining it frantically as if she expected to see his finger gushing blood. When she found the little nick, fully closed now, she gave him a quizzical look.

"Not the problem," he muttered. He was properly fighting back tears now, his shame and embarrassment pushing him closer to the edge. He swallowed, his eyes wandering away from her face.

Donna noticed. "Hey, c'mon," she murmured, squeezing his hand. "Tell me what's wrong."

"I'm, uh… I–" He shut his eyes, and took a deep breath. "Wannahurtmyself," he mumbled all at once. He didn't open his eyes.

There was a moment of silence. "Doctor? Look at me?"

The Doctor shook his head, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Alright." Her voice was so gentle, so calm, in such sharp contrast to how he felt. "Do you want to come inside?"

He sniffed and nodded, head ducked so she couldn't see that he had started to cry. He suspected she knew anyway, because his entire wiry frame was beginning to shake with the effort of restraining himself.

Donna led him into her room, shutting the door behind her. His gaze remained fixed on the floor as she sat him down on her bed; he couldn't even find it in himself to be curious, having never been properly invited into her room. He just buried his head in his hands, fingers clenching in his hair, and tried not to make any noise.

He felt the bed dip as Donna sat next to him. "Please don't be embarrassed, Doctor," she murmured. "I'm glad you came to find me. Really. I just want to help."

The Doctor couldn't help but look up at her then, and his breath caught in his throat. There wasn't a trace of judgement on her face, no pity, not even surprise. Just open, honest compassion. When was the last time someone had looked at him like that?

"Okay," he choked out, nodding. The aching tightness in his chest eased somewhat, his racing hearts beginning to slow. "Okay."

"Good." Donna smiled, and took his hand once more. "So what's brought this on?"

The Doctor managed a sheepish laugh. "I don't know, it– it's ridiculous, really, you'll think…"

She raised an eyebrow. "You want a bet?"

Oh, she knew how to get him to talk. "Alright, fine. It…" He sighed. "It was those– er, those little marks, in the wall of our cell. Made me… think." He chewed on his lip, hoping he wouldn't have to explain any further.

"That's not ridiculous," she said. "And I'm sorry. I… I thought that something was bothering you. I should've checked."

"Not your fault," he said roughly. He turned away abruptly, rubbing a hand over his mouth. "Oh, gods, I'm– I'm sorry," he groaned. "I'm sorry, Donna, I don't know how I let this get so… out of hand."

"It's not your fault either," she reminded him. "You've nothing to be ashamed of."

The Doctor found he couldn't quite believe that, though he appreciated the effort. The heavy ache in his chest was returning, and he sagged visibly, letting his gaze fall to his lap.

"How long's it been?" Donna asked quietly.

The ache sharpened. "Few months," he mumbled indistinctly, a sick sort of dread settling in the pit of his stomach.

He knew exactly what the look that flickered across her face meant: it had been much longer than that since he'd let slip about this habit of his, and she'd realized that he must've done it again after their talk. He had never told Donna about that incident; he certainly wasn't ready to now. To his relief, she didn't ask.

"Why do you look so sad?" she murmured. "Do you remember what you told me? After the w–"

"Please, don't," he interrupted quietly. He didn't want to remember those times right then.

"Alright. I'm sorry." Her thumb was rubbing soothing circles on the back of his hand. "But a few months? That's good, Spaceman. That's amazing."

He couldn't help but scoff at that; how many centuries had he gone before he'd gotten in the habit? A few months was nothing. He let his eyes drift away from her, knowing he couldn't stand to voice those thoughts, and busied himself cataloguing the contents of her room. Right away his gaze was drawn to her dresser, on which rested a small pocket knife—his gift to her after one too many incidents of them getting captured and tied up. His stomach lurched. Its glint was almost tantalizing, teasing him with its closeness. For a moment he stared at it, wondering just how sharp it was, how deep he could cut with it, wanting nothing more than to grab it and–

He glanced away, biting back a sob as he rubbed a hand over his mouth. Guilt tore through his hearts, just thinking about it. He would have done it, too, if he'd been alone. Oh, gods, he wanted to. It had been so long since he'd wanted this desperately to do it. He wanted to hurt, to feel every slice of a blade against his skin as he covered his body with deep, stinging cuts. He imagined the blood welling from his wounds, quick enough to cause him just a bit of concern—he liked that, not knowing right away whether he'd done any serious damage or not—and he felt a fierce tug of longing. Why was he here, again?

Donna, to her credit, didn't miss his staring. She looked at the Doctor, her eyes full of sadness, and squeezed his hand before crossing the room to put the knife away in a drawer. She glanced around, making sure there were no other sharp objects in reach before she sat down, closer this time, and wrapped him up in a hug. His breath hitched, and he gave a choked little whimper.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he said, voice cracking. "I'm trying, really, I am. I don't want to– to keep doing this. But…" He swallowed hard. "I need you, please, I can't do it, I can't, I j– just want–" His words dissolved into sobs and he leaned further into Donna's arms, crumpling in on himself.

"I'm here," she whispered. "It's alright, I've got you. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you, don't worry. You don't have to do it alone. It'll be okay."

It was some time before he finally quieted, his unrestrained sobs turning to rather pathetic hiccups and sniffles. Donna murmured quiet little assurances to him all the while, lots of _I love you_ and _you're gonna be okay_ and _I'm so proud of you, Spaceman, so proud_. The physical contact was comforting; he didn't get a lot of that, at least of the nonviolent variety. And he didn't get a lot of other people taking care of him either, not like this, but that was his own fault, really. They might, if he were ever brave enough to ask.

This was nice, though. Having someone who he could talk to, who would stay with him, hold him, who wouldn't think he was weak and selfish and if she did then she wouldn't say it… it was so much better than trying to talk himself down, over and over again until he couldn't figure out why he did it. She reminded him. She was a lot better at it than he was. Maybe he should start asking, every once in a while.

"Hey. Doctor," murmured Donna, brushing a piece of hair out of his face. "What're you thinking about, Martian Boy?"

He sniffed, tried to compose himself. That was a rather loaded question, he thought, so instead of answering properly he simply gave a broken whisper of, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it."

He felt a pang of regret as she let him go, slowly, drawing back but keeping one hand on his shoulder.

"How about we find you something to do, yeah?" she suggested. "What d'you say?"

Relief flooded through him; as long as Donna was with him, he felt sure he could keep himself distracted. "That… that sounds good," he said hoarsely. "Perfect."

She smiled, and he couldn't help but smile weakly back. Part of him wanted nothing more than to lie down and pass out until he felt better, but a much larger part knew it would be better to go with Donna and work through it properly.

"What should we do, then?" Donna wondered. "We could go somewhere, if you feel like it. Or… did you want to do some tinkering?"

"Could–" He swallowed, somewhat nervous. "Could we just go to the lounge? If you like."

"Course. That'd be lovely."

With a reassuring smile, she rose and offered him her hand. He took it gratefully, and allowed her to lead him out of her room; he had to admit, her presence alone made him feel so much better. It was a massive relief to have someone there who would never put up with his self-destructive tendencies, who he trusted to keep an eye on him until convinced he would be alright. He was sure that Donna was as determined as he was not to take the easy way out, and he knew (though it had taken and would continue to take some convincing) that she wouldn't let him shoulder that burden alone. With her, he didn't have to worry about his own resolve so much; he would do whatever she asked. With her, he realized, he felt safe.

When they got to the lounge, Donna sat him down on the sofa and went to gather pillows and blankets from the other chairs.

"Have you eaten?" she asked, tossing a very fluffy throw blanket at his head.

The Doctor untangled himself and frowned, trying to remember when he'd last visited the kitchen.

"Alright, I guess that's a no. You–" she pointed at him, giving him a stern look– "are gonna stay right there and pick something to watch while I get snacks. Okay?"

"Okay." Her gaze lingered on him, and he looked away, embarrassed. "I'll be fine, Donna," he mumbled. "Promise."

She seemed to relax a bit; she walked around to stand in front of him and put her hands on his shoulders. "I know," she murmured, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "Be back in thirty seconds."

"Alright," he said. She stood up and patted his cheek, making him smile and wrinkle his nose, before she walked out of the den with one last glance behind her. And he was left alone.

 _Blimey,_ it was startling how quickly his thoughts turned on him. He gave an incredulous laugh; Donna would be gone for all of thirty seconds. What could he accomplish in thirty seconds?

That wasn't a question he wanted answered, though, so he refocused, counting down from thirty as he grabbed the remote and searched for something he wouldn't mind distracting himself with.

Donna was, in fact, back in forty-three seconds, but she had a bowl of popcorn from Sfalarn and a hearty slice of banana bread so he didn't mind much. Suddenly he realized that he'd been quite hungry for quite a while, and he accepted the proffered banana bread without complaint, taking a large bite as soon as he got it in his hand.

"Budge up, Spaceman," she said, nudging him out of the way so she could sit between him and the armrest of the couch. She threw an arm around his shoulders and leaned against him as she grabbed a handful of popcorn.

"How are you feeling?" she asked quietly, after a moment.

The Doctor glanced at her, then back to the telly, and took a deep breath. "Better," he said.

"You're not just saying that?"

"No," he assured her. "Really, I do. Just… well, not good."

"When's the last time you slept?"

"Er…" He smiled sheepishly. "Eight days ago?"

"Doctor!"

"I know, I know," he grumbled. "I… tried. Didn't work."

Her appalled expression softened. "You have to take care of yourself," she chided, pulling him closer. "You need your rest."

Guilt seemed to settle back over him like a shroud; he felt rather daft for not realizing how exhausted he was. Could he not have thought of just taking a nap instead of bothering Donna? He'd been alive for over nine hundred years. How was he still mixing up "tired and hungry" and "mildly suicidal"?

He really hated himself right then.

Donna must've caught the change in his expression, because she shifted around a bit, setting the popcorn and the Doctor's empty plate on the coffee table. "C'mon," she said, reaching over him to grab a pillow from the other side of the sofa. She propped it up against the armrest. "Let's get you to sleep."

The Doctor hesitated, glancing between her and the pillow.

"I'm not going to leave you alone right now," she said softly. "C'mon. Get a few hours' rest. You'll feel better."

"I can't keep you up any longer," he protested. "I… I shouldn't have–"

Donna silenced him by stealing the blanket off his lap and drawing her legs up onto the couch, moving to lean back against the armrest. She draped an arm over the back of the couch and patted the pillow beside her. "Lie down, Time Boy."

The Doctor got the sense there was no arguing with her. Cracking a small smile, he tentatively lay down beside her, facing the telly, and shifted around to get comfortable. He let out a quiet sigh as he nestled into the (remarkably soft) pillow, only just starting realize how tired he was. Some of the tension drained out of his body, along with a whole lot of adrenaline, and suddenly his head was spinning with exhaustion.

Donna draped the blanket over his lower half, then moved her hand to play absently with his hair as she watched the programme. He found the gesture calming; though it wasn't the first time they'd lain here together, after one or the other had tried and failed to sleep alone, he had never confided in her about this. He hated for her to see him not quite in control of himself. It was horribly embarrassing, and uncomfortable, and he almost regretted going to wake her, but her gentle touch was starting to soothe some of those worries. In such close quarters with another being, someone he loved and trusted implicitly, he began to find it harder and harder to be upset.

"Do you want to talk?" asked Donna, breaking the silence after a few minutes.

The Doctor's immediate instinct was to refuse. "About what?" he said instead.

"Whatever you like." When he didn't respond for a moment, she suggested, "Maybe what's been going on?"

"What d'you mean?" he asked.

"Well, I know you explained about the cell. Just figured there might be something… more, to it."

The Doctor hesitated. He hadn't really thought about that. "I– I don't know," he said haltingly, still unsure he even wanted to be discussing it. "I guess… well, I suppose it's…"

"Just habit?"

"Yeah," he said, surprised that she was able to articulate it. "Actually, yeah."

"Well, I…" He heard her shrug. "I think you're really brave. To try and break it. It's hard. And I know it probably doesn't seem like it, but, y'know, there are tons of better ways to stop feeling bad. You'll be okay. You'll learn."

The Doctor felt tears prickle at his eyes as her words sank in. Ignoring the fact that he was really rather touched, he blinked them away and flipped onto his back to look up at her. "Have you been reading up?" he asked, eyebrow quirked teasingly.

Donna blushed. "Maybe," she said. "A bit."

He laughed. "I made you do research."

"Shut up!" She smacked his arm, giggling.

The laughter faded away quickly, and the Doctor found himself blushing as well. "But, erm… thanks," he mumbled. "Means a lot."

She was quiet for a moment, and he fought down the impulse to joke or take it back. Then she ruffled a hand through his hair, and murmured, "Anytime, Spaceman. You come talk to me anytime."

He held her gaze just long enough to let her see how much he appreciated that, then turned his head to watch the telly, lacing his fingers over his stomach. Whether he would have the courage to take her up on it was another matter, but the offer alone warmed his hearts. Had she really gone out of her way to learn how to help him?

The concept was simultaneously humiliating and incredibly touching. He did not like to think of her gaining such insight into his neuroses; he didn't like the idea of her pitying him, or thinking he was mad or perverse once she really considered it. He certainly didn't want her to picture it, and he figured that was inevitable. But to know that she'd cared enough to spend time trying to understand what he needed was… well, it made him feel loved.

He smiled to himself. "Hey, Donna?"

"Yeah?"

"You should go back to bed."

As if he'd suddenly reminded her of how late it was, she yawned. "Probably," she murmured. "Ok if I sleep here too?"

He looked up at her. "You're going to stay?"

Donna blinked, as surprised as he was. "Do you want me to?"

The Doctor hesitated, then nodded, hoping that was an acceptable answer.

"Then of course I will, dumbo," she said, smiling fondly at him. "C'mon, let me under that blanket."

Chuckling, he complied, lifting the blanket out of the way so she could lie down. She ended up partially on top of him, her head on his chest and an arm thrown around his middle, and he laid the blanket over the both of them before shifting a bit so he could hug her too. He sighed, contentment washing over him as her weight grounded him further, her body like a large hot water bottle against him. He'd never been very good at sleep, but it didn't take long for him to start dozing off, his eyelids growing heavy and his vision blurring.

"Doctor?"

Donna's quiet murmur brought him back to wakefulness. He gave a hum of inquiry.

"Are you feeling any better?"

"Worlds," he said, without even having to think about it.

"D'you still want… y'know."

That gave him pause. "Yeah," he whispered, after a long moment. He didn't see a point in lying, not after the night's ordeal.

"I'm sorry." Her arm tightened around him. "I'm really sorry that you… that you feel like this. Can–" She lifted herself up onto her elbows, brushing her hair out of her face so she could see him. "Can you promise me something?"

"Sure," he said. He knew she would hear the hint of caution in his tone, but he meant it; it was the least he could do.

"Just wait a day? Before you do anything?" In the dim light from the telly, he could just see her wide eyes, full of concern and sympathy. "Just twenty-four hours."

He hesitated, his mind instantly swirling with hundreds of excuses for her, empty reassurances, and reasons why he shouldn't make that promise. He banished all of them, and smiled wryly. "Eighteen," he countered.

She slowly broke into a grin, and lay back down laughing. "Twenty," she said.

"Deal." He knew full well that the worst of it would pass once he got some rest. In twenty hours he'd be good as new. It didn't stop it hurting right then, of course, but it was reassuring nonetheless. "Now go to sleep," he murmured. "You need your rest too."

Donna sighed, shifting a bit to get comfortable. "G'night, Spaceman," she mumbled. "Feel better."

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Goodnight, Donna. Thank you."


End file.
